To Keep
by funscone
Summary: Life isn't always what it seems, especially during a war, but Draco Malfoy somehow manages to make it all so much more confusing. HD


disclaimer: I own nothing. ask anyone.  
warnings: violence, character death(not Harry or Draco)  
notes: this was written for serpentinelion's secrets and wishes fest at LJ.

the prompt: I'd prefer something that takes place during the war, and would capture the moment when Harry's feelings for Draco change (for any reason, his role during the war, whatever you want). I would like to feel Draco's seduction, his attraction for Harry and Harry's slow understanding of his own feelings. No feminine boys, no cross-dressing. Magic is welcome, as well as magical creatures (dragons for instance). I'd appreciate UST, and maybe a strong contrast between the context (war, fights, death) and the relationship between the boys. It could be pre-slash, or very smutty, but it should be realistic and IC please!

G.G.G.

It was dark and damp in the alley, only a thin sliver of moonlight reaching down to touch the dirty cobblestone street, a few long feet away from the shadows clinging to the old worn-down brick houses where Harry swore that he could hear rats scratching against the stone.

He shivered, pulling his coat up tighter, and fruitlessly tried to cover his hands with the sleeves, his fingers slightly stiff from the cold. He squinted into the darkness around him, silently cursing Snape for making him wait in a dodgy alley in the middle of the night, _freezing his bits off_, while the rodents were steadily making smaller circles around him.

Yet, despite his vexation of the circumstances, he didn't notice when Snape arrived, not really. He seemed to melt out of the darkness, taking form in front of Harry, his face lying completely in shadow beneath the hood. Harry felt as though the weak moonlight had been sucked away in an instant, and he was faintly reminded of Dementors for one chilling second before Snape pulled the hood back a little, baring his scowling mouth and prominent nose.

"I would like to point out that _I_ was here on time," Harry muttered bitterly, rubbing his fingers together.

"You should be grateful I managed to come at all," Snape sneered. "I am not too averse to the thought of leaving immediately and letting you fend for yourself, though I have seen the effects of it, and it is most displeasing. I can't say I'm surprised, but I am severely disappointed at your lack of initiative and successes so far."

Harry twisted his mouth, feeling the anger that came so easily these days start rising in him once more. It had been a shit day, and an even shittier year and a half. It wasn't as though Snape had been especially useful, either. Then again, Harry hadn't offered him much in return. Or anything at all, when it came to it. He gritted his teeth and clenched his mouth shut. The Order needed whatever information Snape could give them, and he didn't trust Snape not to walk away if Harry worked himself into a snit.

"Look, I'm freezing my balls off here. Can you just tell me what information you have for me?" Harry tried hard not to make his teeth chatter.

"Eloquent. Very well: Dragons."

"Dragons," Harry deadpanned. He wondered if his ears were getting frostbite.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, Dragons. Large scale-covered fire-breathing animals with wings. Ring a bell?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, but he answered coolly, "I am very well aware of what Dragons are."

"I stand amazed. A special group has been training Dragons—or rather, found a way to control Dragons—through a method that has similarities with the Imperius Curse. They have over twenty Dragons in their control, and they are all going to strike against the nearest Wizarding town south of Hogsmeade." Snape's mouth settled into his usual displeased expression, and Harry, who had forgotten about the cold for a moment, stared silently at him for several long seconds.

"When?" He asked finally.

"At sunset in eight days. I urge you to act quickly."

"But what can we _do_?" Harry asked shakily, suppressing a shudder. Or a shiver. Maybe both.

Snape lowered the hood over his face again until all Harry could see was the grim line of his mouth. "You have contacts, Potter. Use them for once." He turned around and walked away into the shadows, seeping into the darkness in the same way that he had appeared. Harry heard a muttered 'Imbecile' before there was a pop of Apparition, and he was alone in the alley once more.

G.G.G.

It wasn't hard to talk to Charlie, not the way Harry had imagined. He wasn't used to asking people for things, not the things that really mattered, anyway. The fact that everything tended to end up like one of Neville's botched potions projects had never been very encouraging either, and Harry had stopped truly wishing for things long ago.

The last thing he had really asked for was that the Weasleys move in with him at Grimmauld Place. It hadn't been a necessity on the family's behalf, not really, though Harry figured they were much safer in the large, grim, dusty house where old magic was lingering like spiderweb in the corners. Still, they had moved in there for his sake, and Molly's hearty "Of course, Harry dear!" lingered in his ears as he approached Charlie in the drawing room the next morning.

Charlie had a nice face. He wasn't especially handsome, not in an eye-catching way, but there was a certain air about him that made you sense how open and good-natured he was. Harry hadn't really spoken to him before, just light chatting in passing, and he wasn't certain how Charlie would react to Harry's request. Hence, it was with a slight hesitation to his steps that he walked up to where Charlie sat in an armchair in front of the fireplace, and came to stop in front of him.

Harry stood silent and at a loss for what to say for so long that Charlie eventually put down the copy of the Daily Prophet he was reading and gazed at him quizzically, looking rather amused. "Yes?"

Harry blinked, the one word having released him from the standstill in his mind, and suddenly the words came automatically, almost unbidden. "There's going to be another attack. Near Hogsmeade. Three days from now."

There was a short silence, during which the crackling of the fire seemed almost unnaturally loud.

"Have you... told the Order?" Charlie's face was blank.

Harry hastily shook his head.

Charlie's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "Why are you telling me?"

Harry swallowed, trying to dispel the image of a large shiny body, huge wings, menacing eyes, _heat_— "They're going to have dragons."

G.G.G.

Adrian came with the dragons. Or maybe the dragons came with Adrian. Suddenly he was just there, another occupant at the table at breakfast, another filled seat in the drawing room in the evenings. Another person who lingered in the constant timeless spaces in the house, another shadow darkening the floors.

It was a barely noticeable change, as though he had always been there somehow, and he was just physically filling in a hole. Like the missing piece of the puzzle that you hadn't known you needed.

Maybe it was because he completed Charlie. Made him more vivid, _alive_ than before. Still, Harry didn't adjust to Adrian. He just fit. Nobody questioned it, and that suited the household just fine.

Nobody even spoke a word of it when Charlie and Adrian gave up the ruse three days in, and transfigured their two single beds into one double, and that suited Harry just fine.

G.G.G.

The sun was waning. It hung low on the sky like a large sad golden eye, hovering ominously over the horizon. Time stood almost still, the silence broken only by the occasional gruff sound issued by a dragon.

Harry stood with his eyes pinned to the sky, staring so intensely that his eyes ached, trying very hard not to think about the fact that there were far too much people in the gathering—what easy targets they were going to be for a group of dragons controlled by Death Eaters.

He heard a subdued call of "Look north!" from not too far away, and as he turned his side to the sun, dark spots were dotting the evening sky.

The dragons took flight around him with surprisingly little fuss. Harry didn't know what he'd expected. Not thunder and lightning, but still _something_ more than disgruntled dragons huffing as they rose into the air, the wind they created making robes flutter in their wake. Given, this time there wasn't a crowd roaring around him on raised stands, his pulse wasn't pounding and rushing in his ears, and he wasn't a terrified and confused fourteen year old.

He was a terrified eighteen year old, now.

The scene seemed muted somehow, as the heavy bodies slid through the air, fading light reflected in the scales, dusting them with gold. It was as though the grass had soaked up all the sound (storing it in the ground to release once more when wind would hiss thorough the grass, and it would all be set free in one great roar), preserving the last few precious seconds of stillness.

Then, an explosion of sound. Strong jaws snapping together, bones crushing, pained roars bursting from clouds of fire, claws digging into flesh, blood spraying from the air like raindrops, hot and dark.

There were yells, too. The dragon trainers were trying to console the wounded animals, guide them to a point of advantage from their lethal positions; chained to their dragon's neck. The Death Eaters were trying to take aim at the people scattered over the ground, their dragons breathing fire towards the robed figures, setting the dry autumn grass ablaze.

It was a flurry of heat and colour. Panicked voices conjuring water, animalistic cries echoing from above, the ground crumbling to dust at Harry's feet. The air felt burning against his skin, and he joined with the other voices saying "_Aguamenti_," while his eyes prickled and tears welled up against the heat.

A mighty roar came from the air, and Harry looked up to see a dragon almost right above him, crying out as its neck was being violently crushed by the jaws of another dragon. It shook vigorously, trying to break loose and get down to the ground, and a black-clad figure fell from its back, down into light and heat.

It had become indiscernible which dragon was which, the almost fully sunken sun betraying nothing, and the fire from below only made them all orange and golden, glistening bodies writhing in the air, bellies scratched and bleeding.

Harry didn't have time to stop, didn't have time to hesitate. He started making his way over to the fallen person, through fire and smoke and wet ashes, his feet slipping and his robes catching fire more than once.

Another roar, this one closer and more pained than the previous. A shadow fell over him, and when he glanced up, the massive body of a dragon was already closing in on him, falling rapidly towards the ground. He wasn't able to react, couldn't move. He just stood there, staring at the bleeding creature, and then suddenly, he wasn't. A body collided roughly with his, pushing him to the side the moment before the dragon crashed to the ground right at the place where he had stood.

Air rushing out of his lungs as he landed on his back on the ground with a squelching sound, dirty water soaking his robes, he was too winded to see who was lying on top of him right away. However, with smoke and hot air burning in his lungs, he blinked ash and tears out of his eyes, and came to stare right into the horror-struck face of one Draco Malfoy.

They were perfectly still in stunned recognition for a moment, then Malfoy winced and scrambled to get up, though rather slowly, as though he was in pain. Harry sat up as soon as he could, fire having already started licking his robes once more.

"Let's just forget this, Potter." The words blurred in Harry's ears, the sound dull and muffled, like dazzling heat. Malfoy's voice was still familiar, though a little rougher, a little worn. It was then, blinking up into Malfoy's face, that Harry realised that Malfoy had just saved him. Before Harry had time to react, however, Malfoy was already moving away, black robes pulled tight around his body to try to avoid catching fire. Harry didn't know what came over him right then, but he was suddenly overcome with the feeling that he _could not let Malfoy disappear again_.

"Malfoy!" He cried, smoke irritating his throat, making it more of a squeak. Moving to get to his feet he opened his mouth to call out for Malfoy again, but in that instant the fallen dragon twitched, its entire body going rigid, wings fanning out, blowing ash and dirt into Harry's face. In a split second it had knocked Malfoy over with one of its wings, the force sending him flying several feet. With a last pained moan, the dragon came to lie absolutely still, muscles lax, one of the wings dangling over the side of the body at an odd angle.

When Harry reached Malfoy he was already unconscious.

G.G.G.

Harry was sitting on his feet on the floor in one of the bedrooms on the second floor, next to the bed where Malfoy lay without showing any signs of waking up. He sighed, shifting in boredom, trying to get some circulation into his feet, which were starting to prickle. He felt surprisingly... mellow. He'd thought that he would be brimming with rage at the mere sight of Malfoy, anger clouding all other thoughts than those of revenge, but no. It was a rather empty feeling, really, like a climax that had deflated, leaving mere disappointment in its wake.

He glanced at Malfoy again, reaching out with a finger to poke him in the ribs. No reaction. Harry slumped against the bed, head knocking painfully into the wooden edge. He winced. A stale taste lingered in his mouth, like death, and blood, and exhaustion.

There was relief. Some little part of him was secretly glad to see Malfoy alive. Not because it was _Malfoy_, of course, but because it was another familiar face that would not yet fade into history, lost in another useless battle. Malfoy's allegiance was another story. He had saved Harry's life, and as such Harry hadn't been able to leave him behind. That would have meant leaving him to an almost certain death, but by taking Malfoy with him Harry had made him a prisoner of war, whether he'd intended to or not.

It wasn't an optimal scenario. What was he supposed to _do_ with Malfoy, for one? They would question him, naturally, but Harry highly doubted that Malfoy knew anything that could be useful for them. _Snape_ rarely had useful information, and he walked far riskier grounds than any other of the Order members.

It was a new kind of stalemate, really. He didn't expect Malfoy to embrace the situation. Actually, Harry himself didn't find it especially embrace worthy, for that matter. He didn't like Malfoy, didn't sympathise with him. Malfoy was a daft git who had gotten himself into trouble he couldn't get out of.

But he was alive.

"_We don't fight wars to kill. We fight to live,_" Harry remembered Remus telling him after his first real war battle, a few weeks after Harry had returned to live at Grimmauld Place. That had been before Hermione and the Weasleys came to live there too, when the long days of solitude interspersed with hectic moments of terrifying action had left Harry feeling weak and frustrated.

He was still frustrated, and tired of the bleak future that lay ahead, but he didn't feel helpless. He never planned more than a week or two ahead, didn't want to — didn't _dare_ to, but time passed ceaselessly, pulling him along until months had gone by in the same grey-toned existence. Fear was omnipresent. It was in weary faces, in the sunrays streaming in through pulled curtains, in tired voices. It was in the _laughter_. It soaked through everything until Harry thought he would choke from it, thick and ashen in his mouth.

Then it started to become normal. He got used to it. They all did. Soon it gave way to numbness, and with it came boredom. Listlessness. Hopelessness.

Harry didn't hate Malfoy. There simply wasn't any room for hate. Not anymore.

Harry was pulled out of his reverie when Malfoy shifted slightly, arm moving from his side to come to rest on his stomach. Harry sat up on his knees and leaned forward to look contemplatively at Malfoy's pale face for a moment before he reached forward and poked him on the nose. With an indignant cry Malfoy snapped his eyes open, and he lay blinking up at Harry for quite a while before the light of realisation seemed to penetrate his mind.

He opened his mouth, but didn't speak at first. His breath smelled warm and sour, and Harry leaned away. Malfoy swallowed dryly. "Where am I?" His voice was scratchy, but from sleep or screaming, Harry didn't know.

"Somewhere safe," Harry answered softly, not feeling like being especially forthcoming now that Malfoy had finally woken up. He'd been sitting there for hours already, keeping watch over him after his wounds had been healed to the best ability of the inhabitants of the house.

Malfoy closed his eyes. He looked tired. "What's going to happen?"

Harry hesitated. "You don't have to worry about anybody finding you." It wasn't really an answer, but as Malfoy's eyes shot open again to glare at him, Harry only raised an eyebrow in challenge. Malfoy turned his face away.

"Why did you bring me here?" It was a rough whisper, almost as though Malfoy's voice had broken, crumbled, and all that was left was a weak rasp.

Harry's mouth felt dry as his eyes skimmed over Malfoy's weary features. "You saved my life."

"You-," Malfoy paused, swallowed. "I save you, and you take me prisoner?"

Harry looked away. There shouldn't be any guilt, but he suddenly felt like something was pressing down on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. "You told me to forget about it," he answered, almost surprised that he sounded perfectly normal. He rose to his feet.

"You can't keep me here!" Malfoy said forcefully, voice hoarse.

Harry choked back a humourless laugh. "Good luck with trying to get out of here."

Malfoy remained silent as Harry exited the room. The last vision presented to Harry as he turned to close the door was Malfoy's expression, lit by dim, grey early morning light that washed all the colour from his face. It was one of defeat.

He didn't lock the door.

G.G.G.

The kitchen door opened abruptly, and closed with a slam.

"Where's my wand?" It was more a demand than a question.

"Someplace you can't find it," Harry said neutrally, not looking away from his toast.

Malfoy huffed and slumped into a chair. Harry nudged the plate of toast towards him, but Malfoy just glared. Harry shrugged and took a sip of tea.

"You can't keep me here," Malfoy muttered for the umpteenth time that day. He'd yelled it out several times as he went on a fruitless rampage through the house in search of his wand (and most probably, Harry thought, a way out). Hermione had rolled her eyes and pulled a protesting Ron with her to the first floor lounge where they had set up a research library of sorts, telling Harry in a hushed whisper that it would be best if he could keep Malfoy far away from other people at the moment.

Harry forcefully put his cup down on the table with a slam that made Malfoy jerk in surprise. "You keep saying that. If it was true, I wouldn't have to listen to you, would I?"

Malfoy scowled. Snagging a piece of toast he stuffed a big chunk of it into his mouth before mumbling something unintelligible that in Harry's ears had an uncanny resemblance to "You're such a prick, Potter. Compensating, much?"

Harry rubbed his temples. Maybe he should keep Malfoy locked up, after all.

G.G.G.

Malfoy scrunched his nose at the clothes Harry and Ron decided to lend him (Ron with not a little amount of whinging "But he's such a git!") and promptly told Harry that they could forget that he would ever wear such plebian clothes.

During breakfast, Harry accidentally poured his entire glass of orange juice over Malfoy's robes. It earned him a dark glare, and an even darker "You can't keep me here, Potter!"

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched. "You just watch me."

G.G.G.

The others seemed to cope well with Malfoy. For the most part they ignored him. Harry didn't understand how they managed it.

Malfoy was an eyesore. Constantly in the way, constantly flouncing about searching through every nook and cranny—presumably for a means of escape. Harry didn't mind leaving him to it. In fact, he was _happy_ to, but no matter what Harry did Malfoy seemed to be _everywhere_.

G.G.G.

Malfoy whirled past Harry on the stairs, a blur of red and blond.

"You can't keep me here!"

"Can too!"

G.G.G.

"You can't keep me here!"

"_Whatever._"

Malfoy blew him a raspberry.

G.G.G.

Eventually, Malfoy stopped running about the house, shouting at Harry with dust bunnies stuck to his hair. He took up the habit to sit in silence with Hermione in the research room, his nose twitching as he paged through old yellowed books. It was a small peace, but it didn't last long.

Harry received an owl from Snape two weeks after Malfoy had come to Grimmauld Place, with information regarding the possible location of the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff.

The Order decided to send out a group on a search for the cup. Harry stood by and watched with mounting frustration as the members of the group were selected.

They told him to stay where he was. He needed to be safe, they said. It was a close cut last time, they said.

Harry fumed.

G.G.G.

Charlie and Adrian were two of the six chosen.

Mrs Weasley cried when they left. Harry felt numb.

The house didn't feel empty without them. New worry lines started to etch their way onto Arthur's face, and Molly would sometimes sigh wistfully over the plates as she laid the table for two people less, but their presence wasn't _lacking_. As easily as they had melded into everyday life, they had left.

G.G.G.

"Why do you trust Snape?" Malfoy asked Harry once.

Harry looked up into Malfoy's face, finding his expression suspiciously earnest. "Because he was loyal," he answered slowly, and after a moment he added, "Still is."

"Oh," said Malfoy, a hint of disappointment tinting his voice. Harry wondered if Malfoy'd registered that Harry hadn't told him _who_ Snape had been loyal to.

G.G.G.

"He's not so bad, really," Hermione said one rainy afternoon. She and Harry were sitting curled up in front of a large window in the first floor lounge, reading, her frizzy hair a bit flat from where she'd leaned her head against the damp glass of the window.

Harry grunted noncommittally in response, and turned a page. Outside, lightning flashed.

G.G.G.

He had backed away from the door too late.

"Potter, come here," Malfoy ordered pompously, waving his arm in Harry's direction.

Reluctantly, Harry edged away from the door, joining Malfoy and Hermione where they stood close to the balustrade overlooking the main entrance, right next to the stairs.

"What?" Harry asked monotonously, slouching against the balustrade.

An open book was unceremoniously thrust into Harry's hands, and he blinked down at it, flipping it over to read William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet in large swirly letters.

"Granger here needs to get a better _feeling_ for Shakespeare," Malfoy informed him, "So we need you to read the other part."

Harry scowled. Malfoy's mouth curled.

"Fair maiden, observe!" Malfoy took a bow in front of Hermione before he pranced down the stairs, and she, in turn, performed the horrendous act of _giggling_. Harry felt vaguely ill. At the bottom of the stairs Malfoy turned around and looked up at Harry expectantly.

"Right, Potter, from the top. What's the line?" Malfoy's tone had gotten very business-like, and Harry half-expected him to start rolling up his sleeves. Trying not to think about what might had been revealed _had_ Malfoy in fact rolled up his sleeves (he'd probably be fussing about getting them wrinkled, anyway, vain git) Harry concentrated on reading the first line at the top of the page.

"He jests at scars that never felt a wound." The words were flat, felt foreign in his mouth.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "_But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon_—stop grimacing, Potter—_Who is already sick and pale with grief_—" He made a ridiculous skyward movement with his arm, and Harry stared at him blankly as he prattled on (for an eternity, it seemed), "—_See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!_" He finished with a flourish, and looked smugly up at them.

"Malfoy, you ponce, you know this by heart?" Harry asked incredulously, only a hint of a smile on his face.

"_Yes_. Carry on." Malfoy waved impatiently in Harry's direction.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Juliet's line," Malfoy said exaggeratedly slowly, his eyes wide, as if he was trying to explain something to a small child. "Read it."

Harry scowled. "I am _not_ going to be the girl," he said stiffly, clenching the book in his hands. This was outrageous, he was simply _not_ going to—

"Go on, Harry." Hermione nudged his arm insistently, and Harry gave her a pained look.

"_Hermione_—" Harry whined, and instantly regretted doing it. Hermione's eyes narrowed, her hands came to settle on her hips, and her mouth curved into a sour line.

"In olden days all actors were male," she said acidly. Harry closed his eyes in defeat.

At Hermione's nudge he started reading the lines almost mechanically, but paused and glanced up from the book when Malfoy cleared his throat. "With _feeling_, Potter," he smirked.

Harry shuddered. "_'Tis but thy name that is my enemy,_" he said, simperingly, feeling like a complete fool, "_Thou art thyself, though not a Montague..._"

Malfoy seemed satisfied with his performance after that, because he started reciting Romeo's part again faultlessly, making wide gestures with his arms. It was completely ridiculous. Trying to shy away from Malfoy's dreadful display, Harry focused on the text, and didn't notice that Malfoy had started to climb up the balustrade until a hand was planted firmly over Harry's where it rested on the wooden rail. Startled, Harry looked up, eyes wide. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and mouthed "Your line."

Harry swallowed thickly. "_What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?_"

"_The'exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine._" Malfoy's breath ghosted over Harry's face, and when Harry opened his mouth for his next line he was cut off by Malfoy's lips fitting over his own.

It was as though the world froze over, paused in that one moment when Malfoy's mouth was soft and warm pressed against Harry's, Malfoy's fingers branding the skin of his hand as they moved to circle Harry's wrist. Harry shook, and then Malfoy pulled away.

"So?" He asked pleasantly, turning towards Hermione. Harry busied himself with staring at Malfoy's ear, unable to look away, but too shaken to look Malfoy in the eyes.

"You know, Draco," Hermione started slowly, her expression wary, "Romeo never actually climbs up to the balcony in this scene."

Malfoy didn't bat an eyelash. "Artistic freedom." Malfoy's fingers were still circling Harry's wrist, and it felt as though the skin he touched had been highlighted with tingly warmth.

Hermione's mouth tensed, as if she was trying not to smile, before she dryly added, "They don't kiss either."

Malfoy had the audacity to _smirk_. "Well, you can't expect me to get everything right."

Harry felt sick. Sick and embarrassed and _what was going on?_ Eyes flickering up to Malfoy's smug face once more, Harry still felt frozen into place. Then, with a burst of action he tore his hand away and dashed towards his room. When he reached it he locked and silenced the door, then flung himself onto his bed, Romeo and Juliet still clutched in his hand.

He breathed in a ragged breath. The cotton pillowcase felt rough as he rubbed his face against it, but he only half noticed it. He felt detached, as though despite having run off, he was still standing frozen at the bannister, his hand hot beneath Malfoy's palm, soft lashes brushing his cheek, a warm mouth pressing against his lips.

Harry closed his eyes, and hated himself.

G.G.G.

Malfoy was an annoying git. He seemed to show up everywhere Harry went, constantly poking and probing, asking what Harry was doing, bothering him with requests of playing Exploding Snap, Wizard Chess, Poke the Daft Git, _anything, Potter_.

Ron huffed a lot at Malfoy's behaviour, and took to a habit of tossing Quidditch magazines onto tables demonstratively whenever Malfoy entered the room he was in.

Hermione took to peering at them over her books, grinning at _something_, but what neither Harry nor Ron could figure out.

What irked Harry most about Malfoy, however, was not the fact that he seemed to appear wherever Harry was. What bothered Harry most was the fact that he was constantly invading Harry's thoughts whenever he _wasn't_ there.

He would remember little things, like Malfoy's collarbones as they peeked out of the collar of Harry's own shirt, or how Malfoy's bangs seemed to glow golden in the firelight on especially grey days, or how his eyes fluttered shut in bliss when he drank the first sip of impossibly sweet tea.

Harry supposed he was lonely. Why else would he want to kiss Malfoy again?

G.G.G.

Ron received a letter from Ginny at Hogwarts, and in it there was a message for Harry. It was a little scrap of paper, and written on it was only one sentence.

_It's cold here_, it said.

G.G.G.

Malfoy stopped Harry in the hallway.

"You really are oblivious," he said, and kissed him.

G.G.G.

Harry wasn't keen on thinking about the fact that Malfoy was a boy—_man_, man now—and that everything about them together was fundamentally wrong, so he didn't. Nobody else reacted to it anyway, besides Ron, who looked pleadingly at Harry and said "But he's such a git."

The repetition almost started a laugh out of Harry, but he held it in and answered, "I know."

G.G.G.

Malfoy's fingers were almost always cold. They felt like ice as they inched up beneath Harry's shirt, trailed down the side of his neck, curved around his hip. Kissing him always made Harry think about the wind.

Malfoy wasn't static. He was unruly, unpredictable, and unreliable. But sometimes Harry would wish he wasn't. Malfoy never moaned. It was always a gasp: a short, sharp intake of breath, but somehow—to Harry—the previous one never sounded the same as the next. He started trying to translate them, though he never quite seemed to succeed. It was just another of those things about Malfoy that he never could understand, another aspect of Malfoy that was out of reach.

G.G.G.

Harry caressed the soft, unmarred skin of Malfoy's left arm.

"You can't keep me here forever, Potter."

"I know."

G.G.G.

Life was broken asunder again as Charlie and Adrian returned from the mission in high spirits, and it was announced that they had found the location of the Cup.

This time, Harry insisted on going, and with a deflated air the Order eventually relented.

Harry bumped into Malfoy in the hallway. His expression was cold. "I'm coming too," he said, jaw tense.

Harry looked away. "Okay," he whispered.

G.G.G.

"I can't keep you here forever," he said.

"No, you can't." Malfoy's voice was soft. His wand was smooth and worn in Harry's hand.

"I hate you," he tried. But it was too much like resignation, too much like defeat. Too much like sorrow.

G.G.G.

It was an ambush. They had just found the Cup (the real one, Harry knew, from how it prickled and stung in his hand,) when they were surrounded from all sides, the small stone cellar seeming almost like a grotto in the light from ten or so wands.

They were outnumbered, and the only possibility for survival would be escape, Harry knew. Malfoy felt like a leaf beside him, like he could be crunched at any moment, and as the first hexes started flying, Harry forced him to duck and pushed him towards the entrance, past an occupied Death Eater. He fired away a stunner that hit a Death Eater in the back, just as he'd been about to attack Adrian, who was wrestling with another, whose wand was lying broken and trampled on the stone floor.

It was a jumble of vision and sound, dark shapes melding together until Harry didn't know if his spells hit the correct target as he jumped, ducked and crawled in his attempts to get them all out of there.

A scream that pierced Harry's bones and made his hair stand on end broke through the other noises, and Harry turned around just in time to see blood pouring out of Adrian's mouth, staining his curly blond hair. He'd been stabbed in the stomach.

Harry couldn't breathe. Adrian stared right at him for a moment, mouthing a silent word Harry couldn't decipher, and then Harry was roughly kicked to the floor, his wand ripped away, and a boot-clad foot pressed down on his chest. He stared up at the manically gleaming face of Lucius Malfoy, almost split in half by an inhuman smile. Lucius' wand was pointed straight at Harry with not even the slightest tremor. Harry's insides turned to ice.

"Got you," Lucius said slowly. Harry's hand clenched painfully around the ornate Cup. It was over, then.

"_Av_—"

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Lucius' face froze in a silent "Oh," and he fell to the ground with a thump. Harry passed out.

G.G.G.

He woke up in his room, Ron and Hermione at his side. They told him Adrian was dead, but he didn't tell them he'd already known that.

They told him that Malfoy had killed his own father.

G.G.G.

Harry found Malfoy in the research room, alone. Hufflepuff's Cup stood innocently on the table in the middle of the room, a sheen of dust already marring the golden shine.

"Hey," he said softly. Malfoy glanced up at him, but looked away again without responding. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink.

He stepped up to Malfoy slowly, sitting down next to him carefully. Harry took Malfoy's hand in his, and Malfoy let him.

"Are you—" he started tentatively, but Malfoy cut him off.

"I'm fine."

Malfoy drew in a ragged breath, his shoulders slumped, and clutched Harry's hand so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "I hate you, Potter," he said, and Harry, leaning his head against Malfoy's shoulder, whispered:

"I know."

In that moment, Harry started wishing.

G.G.G.

_fin._

to avoid any confusion, Hogwarts is still up and running, and Ginny is in her seventh year. the trio and Draco still have to finish their seventh year.

and I feel I have to comment on my writing here. I wanted the beginning to be a real mood setter and to put the reader into Harry's mind of just how bleak and dull his life is, and how nothing seems to happen. then, as Draco appears, lots of things start happenning, and he doesn't know which end is up anymore. he starts wanting things again, and is generally confused. I suppose the confusion shone through, but maybe that was my own :P also, there's meant to be a lot of symbolism in this fic. oh, and I might have gone overboard with the italics.

anyway, comments are always welcome :)


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